


sand planet

by tommyinnit



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, I'm Bad At Tagging, Slow To Update, i'll update the tags with every new chapter, robot tubbo, tommy and tubbo are wannabe timelords, tommy still uses twitch emotes in an apocalypse, tubbo-centric mostly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:08:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25757872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tommyinnit/pseuds/tommyinnit
Summary: Yeah, another day the sun goes downWhich means until it's back to normal, bye-bye-byeIf something comes to mind, then walk,So you don't leave behind any regrets.If only they had enough materials travel back in time where the world was still green and turning.
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 23
Kudos: 137





	1. Chapter 1

With every thought grinds more sand between metal cogs into dust, each step into unforgiving maelstrom exhausts a bar of Tubbo’s batteries. The onerous humdrum of the life they lead. His prized bee cloak, fabric frayed, pale piss yellow and it’s antenna attached only by a thread, is no match for the biting whips of sand, now a looming cascade that threatens to blow them off their feet. It’s highly unlikely it’d sweep them off their feets with all their luggage, but it’s a possibility. 

They’re two fingers away from the sun hitting the horizon, giving them a sufficient amount of time to seek shelter behind the ruins around before the storm whisks in dusk. Usually, he’d pick a sturdy brick wall, but the evening view hosts naught in the near or far distance, which gets the robot to start thinking.

Red bleeds in the sky, forming branches of maroon in perforated rain clouds and tinting the tides of sand rose red. Silhouettes of buildings are registered as gravestones in the far distance, but are quickly amended with a bat of his eye.

If it was a warning from a celestial being, the duo cared not to heed, legs marching on before their minds could differ in hopes for more scraps. 

Tommy pauses, which precipitates Tubbo’s own halt, and tugs on the robot’s hood more violently than the sandstorm and points dextral to them. Of course, Tubbo is mildly confused, and is even more confused to see a sparkle in the distance. Occam’s razor sets in place and discards his irrationality - a beast (they detest light) or an alien - in favour of arithmetics and probabilities. Numbers don't lie.

And through the miasma of math and percentages, Tubbo estimates a negligible percentage that they’d be dead men walking approaching the base. Normally, the chances would be 99.283%, but they’re in the south and this means that Sapnap’s protection, sold at the high price of five instant coffee packets, is still in effect. _The Sapnap_. The name now sends a jolt of joy down his spine.

They also don’t lose much, disregarding Sapnap’s protection, and Tubbo’s already burnt through half of his batteries to be able to use his own built in flashlight. What's the harm in more light?

Slow and steady, they march forwards to the buzzing light, and it turns into a dot, then a square, then a really wide rectangle, then to an establishment Tubbo quickly identifies as a convenience store. The light, a bright neon sign reminiscent of the 1980s, stands rusted and riddled with holes, flickering with stubborn tenacity, fighting death. The scratches left on the window pane makes it look like frosted glass, and a chime startles them as they walk into the establishment.

They step in and it’s fucking cold. Tubbo’s sensors detect it to be around 29°C, and he feels his circuits cooling down without the help of a fan. Tommy looks like death warmed over - knees are buckling in, fingers trembling and huddling close into his bulletproof vest like it’d help, and Tubbo can’t help but forsake his coat to the shivering boy.

Tommy flicks his goggles up and stares around like a deer in headlights. The boy is awfully fond of words, hence his infinite stock of them whenever Tubbo tries to talk, but the cold has frozen whatever words now pooling up in his mouth, only letting his expression do the talking. It's like a wild squirrel in a cage. 

In a split second, apprehension contorts into a wide smile, colour seared into his cherry rose cheeks with a blinding eureka. It’s essentially an undiscovered wonder of the world for him; an oasis that’s actually corporeal, technological shangri-la, and Tommy cups his face in thrill.

“Tubbo, _wherethefuckareweandcanwemakeabasehereohmyfuckinggodthisissofuckingpog-_ ”

“-A convenience store. And yeah.”

It takes a while for Tommy to register it in his buzzed state. His sudden burst of euphoria was due to him coming face to face with a unicorn, in this case, air conditioners. They're myths, and the most people have ever seen of it are ones fully beyond repair.

Tommy combs his sand-tangled hair back to his usual bird's nest condition, and Tubbo could spot Orion in Tommy’s eyes as he dusts the sand off from his sleeves and looks around the empty shelves and then the refrigerated section, his clever wit reduced to simple gasps and cheers. 

“Dude, dude, what the fuck is this thing?”

A cacophony of metal clunk against one another, and Tubbo turns to find Tommy hoisting a cash register over his head. Worries of its contents pouring down on the boy like a waterfall arises, but it'll take more than a few coins to take out the tenacious bloke.

“It’s a cash register. So basically before the-”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Shut up, Tub-bot.” According to the ethics bible, ‘How to be respectful for Dummies’, interrupting one when they’re in the middle of an explanation is a level one on the rudeness scale. But apparently, sticking to the books is boring, and Tubbo is just as boring if he does.

From his peripheral, he observes Tommy dust more sand off cargo jeans. Obviously bored, he points his finger off into the distance and inquires, “What’s that?” 

“It’s a refrigerator.”

There's a resounding pause. “Come again?”

Tubbo hears him loud and clear, but takes the time to look at his reflection like the robotic rebel he is. It’s the second time he’s done it in his life now — staring at himself.

Sable leather meets his chin, feeling the rough texture of it as he inspects his face for any damages. His skin is smooth like a child’s, and his reflection casts a lost child, his kind face the perfect substitute for a childless mother if they could look past the purple markings on his cheeks and horns that protrude out his brown hair.

His eyes are a stunning kaleidoscope of gold, green and blue that sparkle with childish glee, but from close, that veneer of humanity is thinner than sunlight. It’s uncanny, and he’d fail the Turing test based on his eyes alone. His green shirt has seen better days, and so has his trusty shoulder bag.

He looks upon the tiles below, and as requested, explains to the best of his abilities.

“So basically, a century ago, people would store their perishables in one of these bad boys to preserve them for longer. It helps keep the bacteria, yeasts and mold from the favourable temperature imperative to their growth.”

Even with his best efforts, it falls short, and the response of clear confusion from Tommy's end informs him well of it.

“Yeah, you’re going to have to dumb that down a lot. I genuinely don’t understand it at all.”

“Okay, basically, the cold keeps food like vegetables, dairy, and meat good for longer because germs can’t grow on it.”

“Then, let’s just steal one of ‘em refrigerator things so we can keep our food more pog for longer.”

“Wha- that's literally not how a refrigerator works. They need power to keep it's storage cool, and they’re fixed to the building.”

Tommy draws his trusty wrench out the side of his pockets. “Tubbo, just watch and learn from the most powerful man to walk this planet.”

And Tubbo heeds, following the order faithfully. Like a man on a mission, Tommy approaches the penultimate shelf and his reflection casts a hungry wolf as the boy went to work on dismantling it. Normally, Tubbo would’ve left him to it, but an anomaly arises when Tommy pops off the glass door from its hinges - there’s a massive hole. Not shelves, just a dirt hole forwards. It’s a shocker for both of them.

Footsteps in and out indicates that this either has to be a secret base or cult, and the size and sole of the footprints remains the same; one person, so it’s a base. It’s the average size of a human male in their early twenties, and Tubbo deduces from the depression that this man is either insanely tall, or insanely heavy.

Either ways, a glitch of trepidation sparks from his fingertips to his cable viscera, and words clutter to form a blockade in his throat.

Cogs churn, and hypotheses and explanations clash to explain what would be the next best move. Well, up until Tommy bursts out in awe, helplessly starstruck. “Dude, dude,you’re seeing this right? It’s a fuckin’ - room! This is so fucking Pog! Do all these - err - con-whatever stores have these?” 

“I don't think so."

In a scarce moment Tubbo often wishes for, Tommy displays conventional rationality and survival instincts, and juxtaposes his thrill with a questioning glance. “Should we check it out? Like, there’s footprints. Means someone’s base, yeah? Do we just leave? What if it’s a trap and there’s like fifty guys waiting to ambush us there?” Except this time, it’s completely unwarranted.

They have immunity against anyone weaker than Sapnap, so it would be a complete waste of resources, and though they’re no Dream or Technoblade, the two of them pack a mean punch together so if push comes a shove, they could take on a lone grown man.

Also, Tubbo’s got an incinerator built in his right arm and a flamethrower in his left, so it wouldn't be too hard a fight lest they've developed an immunity, which is improbable. 

“Nah. We can always beat them up if we have to.”

Tommy smiles. “Touché. let’s go.”


	2. Chapter 2

By the time they emerge on the other side, the blonde’s hair has been soiled with earthy brown, and loose dirt clumps in the robot’s hair, quickly swatting it away to the floor. Contrary to popular belief, Tommy isn’t stupid and holds off diving head first into the room. His tall frame just barely peaks through the hole, and looks over to Tubbo with a look that asked, _‘Is it safe?’_

Tubbo analyses the room. To simply put it, it’s a storage area. It’s boxes and barrels galore, and some lids weren’t even touching the barrel rims. It’s incredibly small though. Tommy could stretch out his limbs and he’d meet tough cement at the end of it. The condition of the room is reminiscent of an on-going operation; dim light illuminates the table dead centre of the room while barrels and boxes stand close, looming over. Either ways, it’s probably rigged with either an alarm or a trap with the latter being more likely.

To test his hypothesis, he picks a can of soup from his pouch, and rolls it in.

Metal clinks and a loud thud can be heard after a few seconds, and nothing happens.

“It’s safe.”

Glee pins the ends of his lips up into a smile. “Well then.”

He places a foot into the bunker. Nothing happens. He carefully places his other foot down. It’s getting anti-climatic. Ultimately, Tommy rules out there being any traps, and filches a few shiny things off the table. Tubbo follows in, though carefully traipsing in the small confine of the room.

They conclude their short heist with a profit of a bag full of spare scrap materials, a pocket full of foodstuffs and a wide smile on their face.

Well, until they hear footsteps that is.

Normally, this wouldn’t be a cause for alarm seeing as he and Tommy can and will put up a good fight against a person, but a foreboding pit of fear suggests otherwise. Why he’s been programmed with emotions he had no clue, but he quickly focuses back onto the situation at hand.

Cast upon the entrance was a lofty silhouette of the grim reaper himself, his scythe in the shape of an extremely threatening diamond axe. If not for god’s passing, Tubbo would’ve sent a prayer up to the high heavens, so he stands his ground while Tommy reaches for the bowie knife in his pocket, both unflinching but terribly afraid.

It gets bigger, and bigger, and bigger, till they see a mask peer from the corner of the wall, and Tubbo short-circuits. 

It’s fucking _**Dream.**_

The Dream. He needs no explanation. Ironically, he’s a living nightmare.

He’s a green, mean, bastard machine and rules over the South with an iron fist and sharp wits. The South, much like the sandstorms, regale his magnificent tales through the depressing architecture regurgitating tech onto their front lines that the North have been struggling to match, their many catalogues of blueprints and plans for said technology unknown. He could probably press a button and the whole world would implode on itself.

Dream’s not the person you want to be caught dead stealing from, and here the two are, hands deep into the cookie jar.

The minute he walks in, his programmed survival instincts detect a vicious predator. His white mask looks like a crescent from afar, and the innocent smiley face has been painted with fresh, red blood. The diamond axe looks extremely used, and Tubbo doesn’t need to hazard a guess that it wasn’t for an extremely tender use.

“What.”

Presumably, he’s cursed upon them the wrath of a malign sun god with an incantation so old and Tubbo feels his knees buckle, and he’s a fucking robot. Tommy looks like death warmed over, and drives his nails deep into Tubbo’s bee apparel, desperate to live past tomorrow. Nettles spring in his stomach, and battery acids threaten to melt through his stomach lining, each churning at a high velocity. 

“Oh my god- you guys are kids? I was gearing up for a whole fight!”

With this ejects a chunk of his unease, but doesn’t fully pacify it. Complex strings of code that makes up everything Tubbo is and will be has been haphazardly unravelled and twisted into a simple string of, ‘I need to survive’, clinging tight onto Tommy’s wrist while Tommy stares ahead, a man unwillingly resigned to his untimely ending. Before his zenith. Their zenith. 

“So-”

Tommy is not going to throw away his shot. 

“-See you later!”

Smashed onto the floor was his facade of surrender and now on his face the resplendent glow of victory, and with brilliance, weaves down under Dream’s arm with Tubbo in hand, and off into the sandstorm with their bags in hand. It’s impressive for a tower to somehow duck under someone the same size with that much ease, and they slide out the convenience store’s entrance like oil.

“Are you sure-”

“Before you finish that, your plans never work, and mine does, so shut up.”

Tubbo raises an eyebrow. “Wait, when?”

Tommy tucks his nose under his bandana. “Since now.”

It’s unforgiving, painful and a tempestuous hell that’s now a thunderous storm, and even though Tubbo is his conductor of light, Tommy drags him off into the tenebrous wake of the tophet, flicking his goggles on before Dream could even follow behind. Death by the storm would be a death less painful than one at the hands of that nightmare.

A voice akin to the audible manifestation of sin rises above the loud winds. “Come back here! I’m not even done talking yet-”

Like they’re going to believe that. It’s either they die later or now, and Tubbo doesn’t need to hazard a guess to what Tommy chose. The sand consumes them, and her loving wrath claims the two in her tough care. Love knows no bounds as demonstrated by the ruthless lashings she deals out in the form of biting winds, and the screams of the green bastard now a muffle whisper.

They march on until they’re safe, or at least think they are when a tank rolls up from behind them with Dream’s voice decimating the wind’s caterwauls. Dream’s got an even bigger flair for the dramatics than Tommy.

Traversing through the sand is hard. It’s like walking in water chest deep when the sand’s just knee deep. So, it’s harder to outrun a fucking tank, but Tubbo’s got a plan.

He takes out a few sticky grenades and throws it upwards, hoping the trajectory of the storm hurls it full force onto the tank, or somewhere close. Tubbo hears an explosion from behind and makes a clever inference that it’s slowed Dream down a bit. Mission success. A victory smile triumphs the clusterfuck of emotions buzzing inside his head.

From deep in the storm, a low growl grumbles low like thunder, “You - regret -”, though in the wake of her wrath, mother nature has obscured those words for only Dream to hear. Even Tubbo’s acute hearing sensors couldn’t pick it up and it snuffs out words lower than a decibel. At least he isn’t dead, which Tubbo’s programmed empathy rejoices at, to which he then contemplates if Tommy wants him dead or alive and quickly resolves his stance into whatever he feels Tommy would uphold; the mean, green, bastard machine dead.

Too bad they’ve used up all their grenades to deter him to finish the job they started, but the political and social discord in the South would be knee deep if their leader winds up dead in a ditch, and that wouldn’t be a pretty sight. So, it may have been for the better that he’s not dead, which Tubbo winces at. He doesn’t need to exhaust his batteries to chart up the soaring death rate with Dream dead. His survival is crucial for many others as well - he goes, and everyone else does too.

Tubbo decides it’s enough philosophical or general cerebral whimsy for the night and gazes up at the sky. No phantoms, so there’s no need to disperse like rats, so they continue to tread lightly, leather boots sinking further into warm sand. 

With Dream thankfully off their tail, Tubbo's line graph of their survival rate skyrockets exponentially, or plummets if they’re being woefully pessimistic tonight. Dream isn’t a loser, so he’s either going to murder them quietly, or as loudly as possible, and each are just as unfavourable. Twilight and sand subsides into aqueous moonlight, and the stars have come out to cavort and host an act in the clear night sky. A cheer of bravo held still in the night’s wind. It’s unremarkably dull, but Tubbo enjoys the banality of it - stargazing. Not something you get to enjoy.

Tubbo tugs on Tommy’s cuffs and points high, wanting to share the view with his best friend. Tommy naturally tenses up to prepare for a fight but that quickly absolves as he stares up. It’s nice. No one really gets to see the night sky clearly, or at least this clearly. Romanticism tints his thoughts rose red; perhaps it’s an overture to something brilliant. Curtains drawn and opening narration finish. Their stage. Tubbo smiles. Tommy would most probably detest that analogy.

In the distance, the robot spies a sturdy brick wall to take shelter behind, and they rest under the spotlight from the pale moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a love hate relationship with the formatting on ao3 .
> 
> THANK YOU ALLTI FOR BETA-READING KINDA ILY DUDE!! anyways the designs are heavily inspired by @atiredshota and @sunahelp cause i'm unoriginal like that lulw ... also this is gonna be hella tubbo-centric for the first few chapters (if i make it past two lmao i swear to god i'm trying my best) also drea m . i hope this isn't too confusing cause my work tends to be . leaves much to the imagination as some of my readers claim, so .
> 
> also please leave a comment my ego swells ten folds if you do <3


	3. Chapter 3

Awakening to the tidings of their heads now having a price tag wasn’t exactly the best thing the robot has heard all year. Or ever. Guess that getting Sapnap’s protection was absolutely useless.

This wasn’t outside the realms of Tubbo’s meticulous calculations, of course. This was outcome K-X07. Now all he needs is a plan and it’s already somewhat tangible; escape to the North.

It’s another morning choked full of dust and sand, and their days are limited in this region. A bounty for a hefty sum of items has been placed on their head - a few tuna cans, two kilograms of meat and a canteen of water - and it’s left Tubbo on the edge of his seat. Though he’d already formulated a plan and a backup plan to overcome this predicament, Tubbo couldn’t help but feel like his parts were arranged the wrong way. Paranoia isn’t entirely miscible with the bot’s healthy disposition, and any of his usually stress-free endeavours like scavenging were corrupted with unease. Hell, collecting scraps has never been more panic-inducing than their first night in the wilderness.

Thankfully, Tommy didn’t seem all that affected by it, so morale in the group wasn’t affected too much, but that doesn’t mean his worries will subside any sooner. Though Tubbo’s practically an immortal, Tommy sure as hell isn’t. Tubbo’s not here to discredit Tommy’s tenacity and pure stubbornness in surviving, but his life is as delicate as holding a damaged bird in your hands. Tommy’s life could be snuffed out in any second and that thought just terrifies him.

It doesn’t take long till Tommy notices Tubbo’s distress, and tackles the problem as tactfully and as subtle as an earthquake; a note inquiring what _‘the fuck’_ is bothering him. It's their usual way of communicating cause Tommy can't talk without inhaling a bunch of toxic fumes.

“What’s bothering me? I guess being fugitives.”

Tommy snatches the piece of paper away and scribbles on it again. _‘Aren’t you immortal or something?’_ Which is entirely true if none of his main components are damaged.

“Yeah, but you aren’t.”

_‘Too shay.’_

To reciprocate the delicacy of which Tommy approached the situation, Tubbo asks, “Don’t you ever feel scared about dying?”

Tommy hesitates before scribbling down something as if Tubbo had struck a chord, which he most definitely did. Tommy never hesitates, so it’s a cause for alarm when he does. Normally, Tubbo would initiate an apology, but his mind rejects it’s execution, and he waits for Tommy to finish writing.

After a minute that seemed to last an eternity, Tommy scribbles down. _‘I’ve got you, don’t I?’_

“But what if I can’t?”

_‘Yeah, but I know you can.’_

Tubbo’s system slows to a halt, a flurry of chemicals responding to such a mild sentence. On one hand, Tubbo reasons that Tommy’s confidence in his ability is unfounded and absolutely untrue. There’s a multitude of different scenarios that could prove him wrong, all of which he refuses to think about, and not to mention the burden such trust places onto him. Hell, he’d already gotten them a bounty on their heads. On the other hand, it’s flattering that he’d trust him that much, and the sentence flutters in his head whether it be bad or good.

“But what if? It’s simply impossible for me to protect you all the time. What if you get eaten by something? I can't do anything then.”

Tommy looks as if he’s gone all stupid and jots down; _‘All these what-ifs and such are stupid!!! Stop being an IDIOT!!! You will not!!!!’_

Despite being a robot, Tubbo just can’t cease all cerebral functions, and neither can he manipulate code to stop predicting, planning, and evaluating. That’s just completely reckless and a disaster waiting to happen. “It’s easier said than done, Tommy.”

_‘Yeah, but you’ve been doing a good job as of now so why start thinking all stupid now? It isn’t gonna help anyone being all sad and shit.’_

Tubbo starts off by listing the key factor for his new glum. “I couldn’t prevent us from being hunted by Dream. That’s not entirely it though, but it did contribute to it.”

_‘As if anyone could’ve prevented that shit. It’s not your fault so don’t go all depressed on me now.’_

Whether or not it’d been a white lie to comfort his friend, or it’d been a statement that Tommy truly believes in, Tubbo is obligated to accept it. “I suppose.”

They carry on with their expedition and Tubbo leaves a bit of stress behind as well, not totally but enough where he doesn’t feel like the world’s watching him. Tommy’s still resplendent in childish glee even visible through his bright blue eyes, brushing sand from his mussed hair, the same as he was before the exchange, and that comforts the robot slightly.

The journey to the North is more tedious than it is precarious given the route their taking, but then again they are dead men walking and other factions might enjoy the South’s bounty as much as they probably would, and the safest route requires them to pass through some rather dodgy areas. At least the air is less toxic than it is in the South. They’ll have to pass by some mob traps, more specifically, Hoglin traps.

Hoglin traps are gargantuan cause Hoglins themselves are _gargantuan_ , and due to its massive size, collapses at any slight pressure, which could prove deadly if they were to accidentally trigger one. On a good note, most of them collapse during sandstorms, so they most likely wouldn’t fall in one.

Following the route, the two would have to walk North-West, avoiding any traps for Hoglins, and pass through the Saints Division; a town manned by a guy operating under the alias, ‘Halo’, it’s most outstanding trait being that it’s the only town that actually follows laws in the South. Sinners detest that place with a passion. Next would be to head North and enter the premises of I.D.O.T, a district just as weird as it’s founders. Lastly, they need to head North and through the Border. Since they’re wanted men, they’ll have to pay someone to smuggle them in, which proves to be a challenge since they’re penniless, so maybe they’ll have to sell a leg. Or two.

It sounds easy on paper, and according to his calculations, it is. They just need to cleverly ration out food and they’ll make it to the Saints Divisions relatively unscathed.

Tubbo just hopes that nothing goes catastrophically wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA I DID NOT FORGET THIS FIC EXISTED. FOR MONTHS. ERR.


End file.
